The Sun Is Coming Down To Earth,

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

The Debts We Owe Ourselves Are The Hardest To Pay.

There Is Nothing The Body Suffers Which The Soul May Not Profit By.

Full Lasting Is The Song, Though He, / The Singer, Passes.

Memoirs Are The Backstairs Of History.